


Warmth Within

by myashke



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Genre: H/C, M/M, genre: angst - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-07
Updated: 2011-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myashke/pseuds/myashke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: There is warmth to be found, even on the coldest, darkest days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth Within

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tracy7307](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Tracy7307).



> Spoilers: No *known* s4 spoilers, but this is future canon, based on the events up to S3, so it may come close!!
> 
> This is for my Tracy in the hopes that she will find comfort, healing and a few smiles within...

Merlin was always warm. Even on the harshest nights in the dead of winter, Arthur could find warmth inside him.

As the wind whipped the walls of their tent and the thin air filled with soft white flakes, Arthur tied the tent closed and stripped down to nothing, stretching out over Merlin’s body.

Merlin’s fingertips trailed down his back as they kissed, imprinting his bare skin with desire. Merlin wrapped around him, pressed up against Arthur’s arousal, moaned in wanton anticipation. Obviously eager tonight, Merlin slipped the vial of oil into Arthur’s palm and pleaded softly between kisses.

Hand smoothing up the back of Merlin’s raised thigh, Arthur slipped his fingertips around Merlin’s entrance, pushing inside, arousal ratcheting up a notch as Merlin sucked in a breath. Arthur carefully caressed the warmth inside him, felt the clench of muscles around his fingers, the slick, hot glove holding him tightly, invitingly.

When Merlin moved beneath him, seeking more, Arthur slowly gave it to him, working him open with a care that belied the urgency of his need. Merlin pushed at his shoulders, the plea clear in his eyes as Arthur knelt up. He moved between Merlin’s thighs, lifting them high over his own, stroked Merlin’s tender entrance with the head of his cock and pushed forward. He eased as carefully as he could into Merlin’s warm body, slow but steady.

Arthur watched Merlin’s face for the signs of the pain that always came when he entered him. Merlin bit his lip, his eyes squeezed closed. Arthur leaned over him and took his mouth, hips pressing Merlin’s thighs open another degree. Merlin’s breath hitched against Arthur’s lips, the smallest whimper breathed into their kiss.

Arthur held still then, arms shaking with the effort, his heartbeat drumming against Merlin’s where their chests pressed together. Waiting. Kissing. Breathing Merlin in.

Merlin opened to him, let his legs fall open and lifted his hips, touched Arthur’s hair and wrapped his arms around Arthur’s shoulders. Breathless and arching beneath him, Merlin threw his head back and moaned encouragingly as Arthur pushed deeper still.

Arthur longed to be reckless and ruthless with Merlin, but when all of Merlin was laid bare and vulnerable beneath him, welcoming him, taking the pain for the sake of the pleasure, Arthur rarely wanted anything but this. He made love to him patiently, surrounded by warmth, held inside Merlin.

  


* * *

  


He’s soaking wet when they find him, lying at the edge of the lake. His cloak is torn, the edges ragged and singed, but there are no other signs of fire near him.

Arthur kneels beside him, struggling to breathe through the pain of his wound and the sight of Merlin. His knights are watching, silent but for the crunch of twigs and leaves beneath their boots and the clicking of their armour as they shift nervously.

Merlin is pale, paler than he’s ever been. Drained of color. He looks small and helpless, far from the powerful warlock Arthur knows he is, whether or not Merlin wishes him to. Rage boils inside Arthur as he looks down at his servant, his friend, his partner. It burns away the pain of his own wound and he feels nothing but the icy clench of anger.

“Bring him,” he bites out, pushing up with a hand hard on Merlin’s chest, not caring a whit if it hurts him. He wishes it _would_ , wishes Merlin would cry out in pain because it would mean Merlin could feel something, anything.

Merlin earned whatever misery he’s brought on himself this time. He’d slipped away from Arthur in the thick of the battle. As soon as Arthur realized he was gone, he’d known exactly what Merlin was up to.

Merlin sought Morgana out despite Arthur’s objections.

It’s nothing new, the defiance, but Arthur’s never accepted it. Merlin’s power and luck have seen him through so often that he rarely listens to reason. To Arthur.

And now he’s a rag-doll in Percival’s arms and Arthur wants to rip him away. His wound begins to throb on cue, reminding him that if he took Merlin from Percival, he wouldn’t make it ten paces.

So Arthur lets Merlin lie in another man’s arms.

  


* * *

  


“Tomorrow,” Merlin whispered, and Arthur sighed and looked away. Merlin turned his face back with his gentle, cool fingers and smiled softly. “Find me tomorrow, after it’s over.”

Arthur shivered and closed his eyes, dropping his forehead to Merlin’s chest. He hadn’t the strength to ask Merlin’s intentions or the patience for Merlin’s answering lies.

“Promise you’ll find me,” Merlin urged, brushing Arthur’s hair as if soothing a child. Arthur rubbed into the touch, stopping Merlin’s mouth with another kiss.

Merlin hummed, then moaned as Arthur canted his hips, slowly, gently.

Merlin lifted his body into the motion, back arching so his chest pressed against Arthur’s. His legs slid up Arthur’s sides and wrapped around his waist, heels pressing into the base of Arthur’s spine, urging him deeper still.

Arthur listened to Merlin’s body, followed every unspoken plea, every command.

He always listened.

  


* * *

  


“Find you?” Arthur’s fists clench as he tries not to shout the words. The knights watch him warily, as if he might hurt Merlin. As if he could.

Percival cradles Merlin, overlarge arms curled beneath Merlin’s shoulders and legs, making him look all the more helpless. Arthur strides ahead of them, yanking open his tent and gesturing Percival inside with all the patience of a wildfire.

“Sire,” Leon whispers, but Arthur shakes his head, not taking his eyes off Merlin as Percival ducks inside. He follows them in and steps between Percival and the low cot, pulling Merlin from his arms.

He hefts Merlin against his chest, surprised at how heavy he feels, how leaden.

“Sire, you’re wounded as well. Let us have a look, at least.” Leon saw Arthur’s fall from Hengroen on the battlefield. He stripped Arthur’s armour off himself.

And if Merlin wasn’t lying cold and unconscious, Arthur might let him tend his wounds.

But Merlin is all that matters now.

Arthur doesn’t answer. He glares at Leon and jerks his head toward the tent door and turns back to the cot, looking down at the lax body and ashen face, grief pricking at the backs of his eyes and deep in his throat.

He sinks to his knees, half-dropping Merlin onto the bed. Pressing his cheek to Merlin’s cold, damp forehead, Arthur sighs. His anger drains away, replaced with dizzy half-thoughts of what his life without Merlin will be like.

He’ll be alone.

He’s been King less than a fortnight, his father mad with grief and guilt and Merlin.

Merlin is supposed to be at his side. He’s meant to be with Arthur until the end. They’ve known it for years.

It cannot end so soon. It cannot end now.

“I found you,” he whispers, reaching blindly for Merlin’s icy fingers. “I found you.”

  


* * *

  


Merlin’s body fitted him as if forged for Arthur, molded to his form. His long, lean frame balanced the broad strength of Arthur’s. They were two halves of a whole, Merlin’s inner strength and Arthur’s physical. When the two melded into one, the world fell away all around them.

Before they’d realized how simple it was, Arthur had worried about taking Merlin. Inexperienced and naive as Merlin had been - in truth, as they’d both been - their first time had been laced through with wariness on both their parts. But their hesitation was short-lived. Being intimate with Merlin was as natural as breathing, as effortless as a heartbeat.

As Arthur turned them over, Merlin moved with him, then against him, his arse and thighs tensing, tightening around Arthur inside and out. Arthur loved feeling Merlin over him, his straddling thighs spread wide, his weight pressed across Arthur’s hips. Merlin had always been deceptively strong. All the servile passivity was stripped away the first time he demanded to be taken harder, deeper.

Arthur seduces him constantly, pulls him into corners for kisses and wakes him with eager caresses, makes love to him with long looks across crowded rooms and gifts him secreted touches beneath tables and robes. But Arthur fucks him, too, when the mood strikes white hot and urgent and nothing to be done but for Merlin to take what Arthur has to give.

He teases Merlin willing, draws out a frantic need to match his own and then fulfills it. He makes sure Merlin wants it, needs it, just as much as he does. It’s never a struggle to court desperation in Merlin.

Arthur thrust up into him, thinking of their last untamed fuck, pressing so deep, so hard inside that Merlin trembled with the force of it.

With a ragged moan, Merlin’s fingers dug into Arthur’s shoulders, the whispered spell just a breath between their lips, but Arthur heard it and tensed. Merlin wouldn’t cast while they... would he?

Arthur opened his eyes and caught the flare in Merlin’s eyes. He stared, mesmerized, as it faded from glowing amber to blue as deep as the nighttime sky.

“I need you,” Merlin whispered, leaning down to press his forehead to Arthur’s.

Arthur kissed him roughly, brow furrowed as Merlin ground his hips down and pleasure overtook his curiosity. He pushed deeper into Merlin’s heat, fingers curled possessively on Merlin’s hips, guiding him. They pressed tightly together, bodies entwined, kisses slow and sweet, the heat a current beneath it all.

“You have me,” Arthur breathed. He couldn’t get far enough inside, could never get enough. He wrapped his arms tight and rolled Merlin beneath him again, surging into him.

“All of you,” Merlin gasped, and Arthur kissed him. He arched, moaning on Arthur’s tongue, arms tightening around Arthur as he shuddered and spilled between them.

Arthur closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to Merlin’s shoulder, fucked him through his release.

Merlin shuddered beneath him, breath ragged, and stilled for just a moment. Then he lifted his hips higher, taking Arthur deeper still.

Arthur groaned at the quick, tight clench of Merlin’s body around him. He wanted to hold on, to stay like that for hours, forever, but his body sang with pent-up energy, racing closer to the end every time he sank into Merlin’s body. His orgasm crashed over him and he let go, let it roll him under, let Merlin have every bit of him. He fell heavily, pressing Merlin to the thin mattress, the force of his uncontrollable thrusts rocking them both, the warmth doubling, tripling as he pulsed inside Merlin’s heat.

He gasped for breath, shuddering with the lingering thrum of pleasure that coursed through his veins. He was engulfed in heat, their bodies so close, and he could feel Merlin _inside him_ , spreading within him and reaching every empty corner. He knew Merlin completely, felt him inside as surely as if Merlin had taken him, had filled him.

It had never been like that, close as they were, fantastic as it always had been. It had never felt so complete.

Merlin’s fingertips traced Arthur’s lips, and Arthur looked down at him, memorizing the line of his cheek, the curve of his ear, the way Merlin’s breath hitched as he tried to catch it.

  


* * *

  


“You’re rubbish at hiding it, you know. I know your secret, Merlin. Lancelot and Gwaine, too. We all know,” he shouts, standing and pacing so he won’t pick Merlin up and shake him. “You can’t be that thick! Oh, pardon me, I forgot who I was speaking to! You cast while we were _together_ and you thought I wouldn’t know? Thought I wouldn’t hear the spell or see your glowing eyes? Or did you think I was too stupid to know it for magic?”

He can’t stop his anger long enough for fear to set in. He knows it’s there, waiting for him to give in to it, but he won’t.

“We’re God-knows-where with no help, no physician, no _sorcerer_ ,” he spits, throwing his scabbard to the table and jerking off his gloves. “You _knew_ this would happen. Do you want us to carry you back? Drag you on a litter through the battlefield and _hope_ you wake up before Morgana rips us all apart?”

The name is vile on his tongue, acrid as it hangs in the air. His sister is dead to him now; the bitter, evil shade who wears her face holds nothing of the Morgana he knew.

His armour clatters to the dirt floor and he pushes his mail over his head, letting it fall as well. He strips off his tunics and yanks off his boots, the bitter cold air against his sweat-damp skin making him shiver. He clenches his fists and forces the anger away, then steps to the cot.

He drags Merlin up and peels the sodden jacket from his shoulders, throwing it away from them as if it’s to blame for all of this. If Merlin had had armour, if he’d worn mail…

No. It wouldn’t have made a difference, wouldn’t have withstood spells.

Merlin’s breath hitches as Arthur works his tunic up his back and chest. He yanks harder, hoping to elicit another reaction from Merlin. The wet fabric sticks to Merlin’s skin and bunches and tugs at Merlin’s hair as Arthur strips it off over his head, but Merlin doesn’t wake.

He lays Merlin down and climbs onto the cot behind him, laying his hand on Merlin’s winter-white chest and willing every breath and heartbeat. He pulls the blankets over them both, but props up on his elbow, watching.

  


* * *

  


“Find you? Where will you be?” he asked softly, teasingly, as he kissed Merlin’s shoulder and jaw and throat. “Why not stay with us?”

He asked because he was supposed to, because if he hadn’t, Merlin might’ve guessed that he already knew about Merlin’s magic. They lied to one another for no good reason.

Merlin would be casting and they both knew it. Killing. For him, for Camelot. It’s the same thing now.

Merlin’s ill-kept secret forced them apart for months, until Arthur realized why Merlin kept him at arm’s length. Gratitude and pride replaced Arthur’s anger then and he’d forced Merlin close, closer than anyone, accepting that for the time being, Merlin couldn’t tell him everything.

Arthur demanded Merlin remain at his side. For all that magic might give him power, it carried a penalty of death. Camelot’s unforgiving laws against magic meant that Merlin desperately needed protecting.

“I just have a feeling,” Merlin whispered, the words so familiar Arthur nearly recited them along with Merlin. Merlin’s “feelings” were foresight, Arthur had no doubt.

“We might get separated,” Merlin whispered with a small shrug, chin lifting as Arthur kissed along his throat.

We _will_ get separated. It was the one thing Arthur feared on the battlefield.

“Shh, be still,” Arthur breathed against his lips, thrusting gently in and out of the warmth of Merlin’s body. He wanted Merlin back already, missed his skin and scent and kiss and he’d not even parted from him yet. “Stay with me.”

Merlin rocked his hips up, body tightening around Arthur’s swelling length. He laughed softly, then slid his foot down over Arthur’s thigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  


* * *

  


“If you die, Merlin, so help me-“ Arthur whispers, pounding the edge of the cot with his fist.

It’s been hours and night has settled on them like a death shroud.

Arthur watches Merlin as he lies still and pale as the stone walls of Camelot. His skin is smooth and icy as marble, despite the pile of blankets Gwaine had insisted on heaping over him.

The wool must be scratchy against their bare skin. It makes Arthur shift, but Merlin stays unnaturally still.

The knights brought him hot wine and a plate of food long ago, but he hasn’t touched it. The fire crackles and pops, eerily loud in the unusually-silent camp outside. Every now and again someone murmurs and Arthur listens for the answering whisper, hears the soft clack of a buckle, the wisp of tent canvas being lifted, the crunch of a boot heel on the dead leaves that littered the clearing.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Arthur sighs and touches his bruised side. Sore as his ribs should be, he can barely feel the pain. They’re broken, at least a couple of them, but the pain is very distant, lost beneath Merlin and Merlin and Merlin.

Arthur’s eyes itch with exhaustion, his vision blurring just around the edges as he leans down and lays his arm over Merlin’s waist as he always does, pulling the blankets up to their chins. He’s not slept, not closed his eyes for a moment, fearing he’d miss Merlin’s final moments.

“I found you, idiot. I found you and you’re...” he trails off, pulling Merlin tighter against him. _“Wake up.”_

  


* * *

  


Arthur moans in protest to the bright morning light that seeps in through the tent wall and burns against his eyelids, waking him. His chest tightens as he remembers how he’d fallen asleep, holding Merlin’s still body against his, hoping against hope that he’d wake to....

Fingertips trail down his cheek and across his lips. Arthur opens his eyes and blinks in the brightness, only half-believing Merlin’s soft touch and gentle smile are real.

“You found me,” Merlin whispers, sliding his ankle along Arthur’s calf, grin stretching wider as he lifts the corner of the blanket and glances pointedly down their bodies. “And took all of my clothes off.”

“I- you-” Arthur stammers, hands rubbing over Merlin’s shoulders and chest as if searching for a wound. “You were cold… and wet,” he manages, shaking his head and cupping Merlin’s jaw. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“It was a near thing, I think,” Merlin whispers, the light in his eyes dulling, his throat working as he swallows. “I just needed time, I suppose.”

Arthur remembers the way Merlin looked by the river and the anger he’d felt. It’s burning beneath the overwhelming relief at seeing Merlin alive and awake. He tries to hold back, but the night he’s just spent convinced of Merlin’s imminent death has worn him to rags.

“You knew this would happen, didn’t you? You knew she’d wound you, that I’d find you. Did you know that you would heal yourself if I did?” he asks sharply, the fingers he cards through Merlin’s hair taking the edge off his tone.

The questions hang in the air of the tent, Merlin eyes going wide and lips parting for a deep breath.

“I didn’t know,” Merlin whispers after a moment, his eyebrows knitting and head shaking. “I _thought_ , I _hoped_ , but I didn’t know. I killed her, Arthur.”

“You-“ Arthur begins, but he cannot find the words. His sister has been dead for a very long time. What Merlin has killed was his enemy, Camelot’s enemy.

It means the war is over. They can go home and begin to build a new Camelot. Morgana’s death isn’t the tragedy it once was, and Arthur did his mourning long ago. Yet, he feels as though he’s lost something irreplaceable.

Merlin seems to understand. He laces his fingers with Arthur’s and squeezes. “How long have you known about my magic?”

“Long enough.” Arthur scoffs, trying to find all of the anger and betrayal of Merlin’s lies and losing the battle as he feels Merlin’s warm body pressing against his own. That conversation will wait for another time. Now, he just wants Merlin. “You’re truly alright?”

“I think I just needed sleep... or you,” Merlin says, cheeks flushing. He touches Arthur’s lips again, then his shoulder, his chest. “I’m glad you found me.”

“Idiot - of course I did.” Arthur breathes. “I am the one who actually listens, after all.” He steals Merlin’s soft laughter with a breathless kiss, then props up over Merlin, nodding toward the tent door. “Are you strong enough to guarantee us a moment of privacy?”

“I think I can manage a bit longer than a moment.” Merlin’s eyes burn bright as the sun and darken to their familiar blue, and every sound outside their tent disappears. The light inside dims.

Warmth radiates from Merlin and penetrates Arthur’s skin as they hold one another. Arthur presses his cheek against the heat, against Merlin’s bare shoulder, his chest, the palms of his hands.

In the dead of winter, the morning after the bloodiest day in a war no one even realizes has already ended, Arthur has found warmth. It’s where it always has been and always will be.

In Merlin.

~finis


End file.
